The Greatest Thing
by Kid Blink
Summary: Toulouse and the others are moving on, whilst tip-toeing around Christian. Original characters, one year after Satine's death. Toulouse and Satie will play major roles. Omniscient POV
1. Default Chapter

He hated them.

He hated them for being able to live. . . to breathe. . . to go on. . . without Satine.

Christian lingered in his Chambre a la journée, his dark, dingy flat, only because he could not part with his haunting memories. The last wisps of Satine's presence were slowly diminishing, however. How he hated it, the Moulin Rouge. Her murderer. He could not help but to feel the guilt of his behavior the last hours she lived. His only joy was that they had reconciled before her demise. He didn't understand, however, how he felt such anger and hate, and at the same time felt quite empty. Empty, like the many bottles that were cluttered at his feet, and about his desk, and under his rickety bed.

Try as they may, his companions' presence only made his loneliness more intense, harder to endure. They had been sad, of course. Sad for Christian, sad for their show… and their empty pockets. Toulouse had spent many months in much the same condition as Christian, however, and had not until recently, been able to realize that Satine would not come back, and that Spectacular Spectacular was a failed attempt at glory.

Harold naturally had not waited so long to move on with his life. . . his business. 'The show must go on,' as he always said. Now a young, English girl called 'Portia' was his newest attraction. She had been trained up to follow in Satine's graceful footsteps. A mock-angel, a shadow in comparison. A blonde-haired beauty that the customers of the Moulin Rouge lusted over without remorse. Christian hated her most of all.

Deprived of Christian's talents, Toulouse, Satie, Argentinean and Doc set to looking for an alternate writer while their amigo healed his wounds. Toulouse could make his sets. . . Satie could write his music. . . Argentinean could act out his scenes, and Doc could do his crew work and lighting beautifully… but without Christian's words. . . without his stories, his energy, they were lost. It was a fateful night that Toulouse had wandered behind the curtains of the stage to have a word with Zidler. . . when he stumbled upon a stagehand that had much more to offer than skill with a needle and thread. . .

Toulouse had agreed to hold a meeting with the new writer in his flat that stood over Christian's. The others came, though they were usually lounging around Toulouse's home any other time, and would decide if Christian's replacement was up to par. On any other occasion, Christian would have been invited upstairs, but this night, they kept their meeting in private, with fear of hurting Christian further. He was bound to find out, sometime or another, but they held a hope that he might return to them and power their new attempt at artistic visualization.

"Well, Christian," came the short man's voice from the balcony. He ducked back inside, "I am going to retire to my bed," he said in a familiar lisp. "I suggest you get some good sleep, my friend." He stole one last glance out of the window, catching a fork of lightening as it shot down from the growing darkness past the Moulin Rouge. It would storm, he knew. Storms made for better sleeping, anyway. "Ah, it will rain sure enough!"

Christian had been lounging on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hands folded sloppily across his belly, and neck bent against the wall. He did not want to hear of rain. "Good night, Toulouse. . ." he muttered, his eyes not moving from the immobile fly on his yellowed ceiling.

Toulouse's eyes fell to the floor, his heart, however, did not falter. It was miserable to see Christian still behaving this way, but he had come a ways from the previous year. After all, they had him convinced into practicing personal hygiene once again. It was a start, Toulouse thought. "Good night, Christian," he moved for the door, cane in hand. Then, there came a knock. Christian flinched, and tore his eyes from up above. No one knocked on his door. His friends had made it a habit to come and go as they pleased, most of the time with futile attempts at cheer-bringing. "Who is it?" he called.

"Monsieur Toulouse?" a male voice called. There was some murmuring in the hallway.

Toulouse looked curiously at the door, worry almost visible in his eyes. Why on earth had they stopped at Christian's abode? "Yes, I am here, one moment, if you please," he glanced to Christian apologetically. The young writer had swung his legs off of his bedside and moved to stand. "It's just a friend of mine, Christian, must've. . . Mixed up my instructions. . ."

"Toulouse?" another voice called.

"Two. . . Two of my friends," the petite Frenchman offered hastily. "Shall I?" he gestured at the door.

Christian made a gesture with his hand to grant his friend permission to open the door, and stood, crossing his arms over his chest.

Toulouse tucked his cane under one arm and opened the door with a forced smile plastered on his animated face, "Mademoiselle Letitia!"

In the arms of a tall, dark haired man, a very pale-looking, blonde woman was held. She had her hair swept back sloppily and her face lacked make-up. She was very plain, but her eyes were filled with life. "Good evening, monsieur," she greeted him. "Forgive us, we saw you from the ground at the balcony, and wondered if this was your flat. ..? My brothers shared this wishful thought," she smiled. There was another man behind her with a wooden and wicker wheelchair in his arms, for the hallway was much to narrow to set it down and still allow for traffic.

"Of course, of course, I understand," Toulouse forgave, eyeing the two tall men. "This is my very good friend Christian James, and it is in fact, his flat. And your brothers?" he questioned, pointing his cane at the one who held her in his arms.

"Neil and Thomas Guillermino," Letitia replied, "And I am," she craned her neck to see Christian, though Toulouse was doing a fine job of standing in the way, despite his height. "Emelda Letitia Guillermino, hopefully the playwright of the next Bohemian masterpiece," she smiled, and though it appeared weak, she was very excited and pleased with herself that she had come across such an opportunity. She did, however, recognize the man who owned the apartment very well. She had met him only once, but worked with him and for him at the Moulin Rouge only one year ago.

He recognized her face. Her pale, sullen face. She was a seamstress that worked for Harold making costumes and gowns at the nightclub. She had helped with Toulouse's sets as well, all from the discomfort of her mobile prison; a wheelchair. Her word's hit Christian suddenly, 'playwright of the next Bohemian masterpiece'. . . So this was why Toulouse had submitted to an early retreat. This was the game that little imp was playing at. . . 'Early to bed' indeed! Christian watched the scene with little emotion on his face. He hadn't felt such jealousy in months. What he felt then, towards Letitia, did not compare to his hatred towards Duc de Monroth, though. He merely felt betrayed.

"Well! Let's be on with it, shall we? Up we go!" Toulouse called out merrily, turning his back to Letitia and Thomas, and facing Christian with a look of utmost apology. He cleared his throat uneasily and quickly shut the door as he backed out into the hallway. "He's not been well. . ." He told the three companions, quietly.

"I have a feeling we've done something we ought'nt, Toulouse," Letitia hummed, with insight. Her brothers exchanged glances.

"I will explain upstairs," he replied. "If you please. . ." he motioned with his walking stick for them to follow and he began to climb the stairs to his flat where his other associates awaited the arrival of their new writer.

((End Chapter One. Please, let me know what you think, either through comment or e-mail. I'd be happy to hear some suggestions. I do think this will be a bit different than it would lead to believe. . .))


	2. Waiting

"I envy him. I have never had a love like that. With a person, anyway. My writing. . ."

"My music," Satie responded.

"It is truly something of beauty. I would use it, his experience, but for the fear of the cliché," Letitia began, allowing a hint of impish delight to meet her eyes, "and I am afraid that Christian may steal my chair from under me and toss it from a window."

Satie lowered his head as a laugh escaped through his nose, his mouth struggling against the smile that wanted to form. He raised his face again, and brought his hand to his nose to push his glasses back in to place. He was sitting across from Letitia on the lumpy sofa in Toulouse's abode. Erik had made tea while they awaited Toulouse's arrival for their nightly brainstorm. His sheets of scribbled notes on crooked ledgers were intermingled with Letitia's sloppily jotted verses, all spotted with clear, brown dots of coffee or tea or liquor. His eyes gazed over the pages, their creative hurricane. He met Letitia's eyes again and suddenly he no longer wished to linger on the subject of his distressed friend. Her brothers had gone, as they did on most occasions, and Toulouse had not yet arrived. There was a discomfort in the energy of the room.

Letitia shifted with effort in her chair. "You would believe I could get used to having a numb derrière," she smiled and relaxed her arms after their workout.

Erik smiled, despite himself. The class just seeped from this woman. . . He snickered to himself and leaned forward, his hand working to turn a page for her to see it better. "I do think we've been staring at this piece for too long a while."

Letitia cocked an eyebrow. She narrowed her eyes in focus, and studied the sheet of music again. "It looks busy." She didn't quite see what he did, evidently.

"Those running sixteenths," he ran his long, pale finger along the line of notes, "they look like the sky line from Christian's view." He used his other hand to point downwards. He found, while watching her expression, he was taking a mental photograph. Erik Satie could not remember the last time he had seen such a puzzled expression on the face of the writer of their company. "It's. . ." he paused, and pointed to individual notes, "The Moulin Rouge," he went on, "Le pub Lisse," he stopped then, hoping she would understand.

She raised her eyes from the page. "I don't recall." Usually, as a writer, she would have remembered such a perspective. Christian's, at that. She had not been to his window, however. She had not been out on his balcony. She had barely been in his room. Letitia did not consider herself a welcomed guest.

"I'll show you." Satie stood and rolled his shoulders, resulting in a crack or two of cartilage against creaky air.

Another raise of her eyebrow. Letitia shifted her eyes, then, almost alarmed. "Satie?"

"What else have we to do?"

"Stare at the walls, I suppose. You can hardly lift me."

Satie moved around the cluttered table and to the writer's seat. He moved his arms into place; one behind her back, across the blades of her shoulders, and the other behind her knees. He lifted. Smoothly, Letitia was raised from her chair, and was using the strength in her arms to hold to Satie's shoulders and neck, as she did with her brother.

Perhaps she had no choice in the matter.

"I _do_ hope Christian is not entertaining," she finally spoke, coyly.

"I never found him entertaining," Satie replied, just as coyly.


End file.
